A Loose thread

Many readers may wonder, “where does a writer get his or her inspiration?” One may as well ask where the wind comes from. Which is to say that it comes from everywhere and nowhere. From a sunrise. The imprint a spouse leaves in the bed next to you. The swirl of cream in a fresh cup of coffee. Love. Tragedy. The smell of a fresh cup of coffee. The craggy bark of an old tree. The first jolt of coffee hitting your bloodstream. Coffee. Where was I?

Right, Inspiration. Inspiration comes from the conviction, or even the mere intuition, that there is more meaning to the world than the common man realizes. A writer sees the mundane and thinks “This means something.”

It’s what I thought as I walked through the corridors of the county morgue, pale fluorescent lights murmuring subliminally overhead. The fedora-wearing stranger showed me into a cold room, opened a stainless steel drawer in the wall, and beckoned me to observe the corpse inside.

“Can you confirm the identity? Is this him?” The stranger asked.

For moments that seemed like hours, I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“Hello? Is this him?” The stranger repeated.

I nodded. It was a lie, but I couldn’t think of what else to do. My brain was occupied with one enormous question, and all its branching implications: what does it mean?

The corpse inside the locker was not my father. It was me.